“but I am used to him, and besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much.”

“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.

“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent — -what, then, is his name?”

“Planchet — yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”

“What is he, then?”

“With his sixteen hundred francs — you remember, the sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter — he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a confectioner.”